


You Men

by days4daisy



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Colonialism, Demonic Possession, Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e07 Possession, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Oral Sex, Scars, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-13 12:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11185161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Ethan opens black eyes and greets the Devil with a smile.





	You Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



It starts as a seed. An invisible thing planted in the depths of his subconscious. Insignificant. But it grows.

Days become nights inside the Murray home. Miss Ives fights the beast, and the seed blossoms. Rare and terrible, beautiful and foul. Its roots crack through bone and weed through veins.

it scratches at a corner of his consciousness. A soft, sweet whisper in the back of his mind. Too many days have passed in this house. Too many sleepless nights, too many shames. When it comes for him, his mouth has already formed the word ‘yes.’

He will become more than a finger on a trigger, but not tonight. Tonight, Ethan opens black eyes and greets the Devil with a smile.

***

Sir Malcolm relinquishes Vanessa's bedside to Sembene and retires to his study. 

Fire blooms in the hearth as Malcolm flips through his latest travelogue. His hands shake, but he pretends not to notice. It’s a fever, this Nile quest, one that burns hottest when he is at his most desperate. How dare he look at this book without closure on Mina? How, while his only lead writhes upstairs in the throes of a supernatural passion?

But he does, he _needs_ to. London has become a coffin, and every day buries him further underground.

Malcolm is not alone. Mister Chandler occupies the sofa opposite the fireplace. A half-full glass of spirit dangles perilously from a loose hand. Malcolm rises to save it. Enough has been broken in this room of late.

Before he can, Ethan makes a quiet sound of stirring. He cracks an eye open. “Fell out, I think,” he rasps.

“You did,” Malcolm acknowledges. “Understandably.”

Ethan sighs, a note of their shared misery. “How is she?”

“The same,” Malcolm replies. Ethan gulps down the rest of his brandy. Malcolm refills for both of them.

Ethan scrubs his eyes, red around the rims. “Think I’m losing my mind,” he confesses.

“Given our circumstances, Mister Chandler, sacrificing sanity may be necessary.” Malcolm watches Ethan drum the edge of his glass. His eyes shift anxiously, as if expecting intruders at any moment. “A walk around the block might do you good,” Malcolm suggests.

“I’m not leaving.” Ethan's tone does not allow for argument. Malcolm is not up for one anyhow. There has been enough of that upstairs. Vanessa lies in her room, wrists strapped to the headboard. The clawing has become worse, bloody scars gouged into her arms. Malcolm bears a few scratches of his own. As do the others, he imagines

Ethan’s attention strays to Malcolm's desk and the travelogue. “Still planning to go?”

“This wanderlust,” Malcolm huffs by way of an answer. He glances fondly at the open diary. “I hunger to escape, even now.”

“Hunger.” The ghost of a smile plays on Ethan's lips. “Am I still invited on this Nile quest of yours?”

“A man of your skills would be invaluable,” Malcolm says.

“How about a man of my temperament?” Ethan is still smiling, a joke Malcolm is not yet privy to.

Cautious, Malcolm answers, “I invited you because you’re welcome.”

Ethan's laugh is larger than Malcolm is accustomed to from him. Or perhaps laughter in general has become foreign these past few months. “You really are just like my father,” Ethan says.

Malcolm wonders, not for the first time, about the weight of the unnatural on their trigger man. Perhaps he misjudged Ethan's strength out of desperation for a hired gun. “Do you want to come?” Malcolm asks.

Ethan’s eyes are sharp behind hooded lids. “Yes,” he replies. “I’d like to see you in this place you love so much.”

“Well then, it’s settled.” Malcolm returns to his desk. Something doesn’t feel right, an uncomfortable churn in the deepest part of his stomach. The hunter, at the moment he becomes the hunted...

Ethan is still watching him, and still smiling. His glass is close to empty. “There’s a bed made for you upstairs,” Malcolm reminds him.

The hearth warms Ethan's face in tides of yellows and reds. He looks at the fireplace, seems to mull it over with lips pressed “I’m fine,” he decides. “I like the fire. Makes me feel like I’m somewhere else.”

Tension unknots from Malcolm’s shoulders. Ethan sounds more like himself. “Back on those western trails?” Malcolm asks.

“Best nights of my life, and the worst.”

Malcolm's jaw clenches; the words hit too close to home. “Get some sleep, Mister Chandler,” he mutters.

After five quiet minutes, Malcolm glances at the sofa. Ethan’s eyes are closed, and the glass on his chest is empty.

Malcolm plucks the used tumbler from him and sets it on the mantle. The fire's heat prickles on his hands. An odd temptation hits Malcolm, to sit directly in front of the flames like he used to as a young boy. The warmth would redden his cheeks like fresh apples, until mother scolded him for sitting too close. Malcolm liked to court danger, even then.

Malcolm sits next to Ethan instead.

Ethan's attire has changed little since Vanessa’s affliction began. Every pair of slacks he owns seems to be brown, and his suspenders always match. His shirts are a variance of gray, cream, or blue. His brown overcoat is hooked on Malcolm's rack, and it has not moved since Ethan arrived days ago. Or is it weeks now?

A mark of some kind is visible under Ethan’s collar. Frowning, Malcolm peels the shirt back. It’s what he thought - a scar, but not just one. Stitched scabs cross his skin like a chess board. Not deep but too precise to be accidental. It’s as if he’s been cut with a-

“Knife,” Ethan mumbles. His eyes remain closed, but he pulls his shirt further for Malcolm's inspection. The scars are deep cherry on his skin.

“Intentional?” Malcolm asks.

Ethan chuckles. “Something to remember him by.”

“Mister Gray.”

“Yes.” Ethan’s eyes blink open. The fire reflects off them like something from another world. “Vanessa did the same to him. Did you know that?”

Malcolm’s frown deepens. “I don’t require those details.”

“You require every detail,” Ethan counters. “Your whole life is built on them. It’s how a man gets his power. Never forget the little things, right?"

Malcolm looks down the stretch of his half-open shirt. The languid sprawl of his legs, back curled into the sofa cushions. He starts to stand but stops when a hand takes his. Ethan looks at their joined fingers too. Confusion flits across his face.

“What are you doing?” Malcolm demands.

“You want to ask.”

“About what?” But Malcolm knows. “Were you compelled to accompany Mister Gray?”

“We’re all compelled by something,” Ethan remarks dryly.

“There’s a difference between what we want and what we have no choice in.”

“I think that’s true, yes.” Ethan urges Malcolm’s hand to his breast. Malcolm starts to pull back, but Ethan holds him close.

“Did he do something to you?” Malcolm tries to keep his hand still. Tries not to trace the scars, like train tracks under his fingers.

“Nothing I didn’t want,” Ethan replies, head tilted. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re not yourself,” Malcolm tells him. He can't resist drawing a thumb across the longest of the wounds. It feels like grain under his touch, pebbled and smooth.

Ethan hums. “I haven’t been myself in years,” he confesses. “Have you?”

“Ethan-”

“You can’t say you haven’t thought about it.”

It’s true, of course. It’s true of anyone who enters the life of Sir Malcolm Murray, no matter the chance of reciprocation. He is a man of passion and the many sins such a persuasion invites. Malcolm enjoys the human experience; perhaps he revels more than he should.

His thoughts lingered on Mister Chandler for a time. A dalliance of the mind, natural when a man his age is presented with something young and fit. A tall, strong man, useful in a fight. Useful, perhaps, in other ways too.

Passing, though. As unlikely a tryst as it would be unwise. Even if Malcolm won Ethan’s favor, Ethan’s discretion has not proven up to the task for hidden sin. He is too emotional. Too poor a liar. “You were a second glance,” Malcolm tells him. “Nothing more.”

Ethan redirects Malcolm's hand to his lips. He nuzzles the palm like an affectionate dog.

Malcolm _has_ thought about it though. More, after the beast revealed the secrets of Ethan and Dorian Gray. The beast’s snarled taunt lingers -  _he fucked you, didn’t he? did you enjoy it?_

Ethan's lips part, and Malcolm gives in to the moment. The low hang of his eyelids, the heat of the gaze beneath. Ethan's mouth closes over his fingers; a slow suckle. Malcolm rewards with a thumb beneath his lip. The touch makes Ethan's mouth pop open. Malcolm’s fingers smear down his chin.

Ethan tries to follow his hand. He's met by Malcolm’s lips instead. The barest of kisses, testing the validity of this moment. Waking or madness, Ethan tastes real... Real enough, at least.

Ethan's responsiveness is easy. His body; long, lean, and lazily nestled into the sofa. His clothes are quick to undo. Fabric falls to reveal the plain of Ethan's stomach. He is built as strong as his reputation.

His chest bears the scars of Dorian Gray’s knife. Crossed scabs that Malcolm rakes fingers over. Jealousy stabs through him, unexpected and unwelcome.

Ethan’s suspenders hold up slacks that are too big. They must be all Ethan can afford on the meager savings from his old traveling show. The too-large size allows Malcolm access without further unfastening. Fabric gives way to thick, wiry curls. His hand is too dry to touch, but he carefully squeezes Ethan's shape. Malcolm feels an answering twitch of interest.

“You like control." Malcolm nods, and Ethan's eyes soften. “Is this how you fucked them? Your native women?”

Malcolm goes cold.

Ethan does not seem to register the change. He is still watching, still smiling. The difference is in his gaze; soulful brown replaced by pools of black.

“Is it not enough that you’ve taken Miss Ives?” Malcolm growls. “Will you possess the rest of us? The whole of London next?”

“I forgot, you don’t want to hear about the people you’ve fucked. Your own body of work offends you.” Ethan holds Malcolm's jaw between thumb and forefinger. “Would you rather I talk about him?”

“Stop it.”

“I can tell you all about Mister Gray,” Ethan whispers, giddy as a child with a secret. “I can tell you how they fucked. Would you like that?" Malcolm glares murder at the thing, but he doesn’t say no. His lips seem incapable of forming the word.

The creature feeds his curiosity in the sweet lilt of Ethan’s voice. Quiet, ever-charming. “The boy poured the absinthe, elaborate as a chemist. Drip, drip. Glasses tickled with drink too potent for a man of sorrow to endure.” A dimpled smile. “It was his choice to fuck a girl whose name means ‘sadness.’ He needed to be touched. He needed me.” He shrugs out of his suspenders, and his trousers dip on his hips. A ‘v’ of hard labor slices under his slacks.

“No one needs you,” Malcolm snarls. "Your only purpose is to lead me to my daughter." He hooks a hand around the thing’s neck.

“I don’t know your daughter,” Ethan says. Or, more apt, he _purrs_. His forehead rests against Malcolm’s, a patient tongue over open lips. "But I know you, and I know him. I know Miss Ives best of all.” His eyes flicker like hellfire in the hearth's low light.

“Your tongue is poison,” Malcolm hisses.

Ethan's tongue - a gentle presence behind parted lips. A daring half-grin and hands that settle on Malcolm’s thighs. “As poison as your cock in a native land,” Ethan tells him.

When he kisses Malcolm, Malcolm feels ravenous as a boy. Heat burns through him, he feels sticky in his clothes. Malcolm is like a drunkard. He pictures the drip, drip of absinthe. The tears in Ethan’s eyes, the swell of Wagner. Such unbridled, demonic _need_. It is the frailty of man to need so recklessly.

“You should fuck me,” Ethan suggests. His eyes close so sweetly, Malcolm can believe it’s all real. He lets the reverie consume him. What sounds Ethan would make! How strong Malcolm must be, to bow a thing like him!

Malcolm unbuttons Ethan’s trousers, and his suspicions are confirmed. Thick, pronounced curls and Ethan's cock, blushed and thick. It stands proud for Malcolm’s waiting hands.

Ethan shivers, and Malcolm forgets, basking in fantasies of bedding him. How confident Ethan would be, and how modest. Strapping and youthful, so full of vigor under Malcolm's touch. But respectful enough to bend to his elder when the time is right.

The beast reveals itself in the quirk of an interested brow. “Should I call you ‘father' too, Malcolm? Like the dead ones. They called you 'father,' didn’t they?”

Malcolm hates him in this moment. Not the beast itself, the loathsome creature whose name Malcolm dares not speak. He hates Mister Chandler, as he hates Miss Ives. He hates them for their weakness. Look how easily they've courted this unspeakable evil! While his daughter, precious Mina, remains hidden to him. 

“Mister Chandler and I have something in common,” the beast muses in Ethan's voice. “We've both survived our fathers. It’s too bad your children didn’t have the same fortune.”

Malcolm draws a switchblade from his pocket and flips it against the beast's neck. His provocation earns a smirk; a touch impressed, and dangerous. Malcolm drags the point down the beast's neck; Ethan’s neck. His skin folds delicately, a whisper away from breaking. What a long throat, tendons round and plump. Did Mister Gray feast here? Did he bite and suck as he carved Ethan's chest?

Malcolm traces the scars with his blade, grit like broken pebbles. Ripe to be unmade and remade in Malcolm’s design. He turns the blade. Presses down.

Ethan’s hands are vipers, snagging him just before he breaks skin. Startled, Malcolm drops the knife; it hits the floor in a clatter. “ _Don’t_ ,” Ethan says.

Malcolm is tempted to laugh at the thing; look how easily it's cowed to his will! But something is different about Ethan's eyes. Once sharp and wicked, they are glazed now, as if waking from a deep sleep. Ethan's struggle contorts his features into something terrible and admirable.

“Don’t,” Ethan whispers again.

Malcolm remembers. The transfusion. The needle. The blood eater. Ethan’s adamant refusal, despite Doctor Frankenstein's mockery. His blood holds a secret, and it is a dangerous one. A sin worth defeating the Devil for.

"Is it gone?” Malcolm asks. Ethan nods like a man hypnotized. It is a fetching look; a dog without a master. Ethan’s face is warm, cheeks tinted and mouth swollen.

He caves when Malcolm draws him close. Ethan offers his mouth, his hands, whatever Malcolm may want of him. Malcolm wants much. He is an explorer, after all. A connoisseur of untouched territory.

After all he has seen, he can allow himself a mouth against his. The incessant push and pull, breaths burst between faces. Hands on skin sloped like uncharted terrain. Malcolm spits in a hand. It’s what he can offer, a tight fist around his shaft. Ethan grunts and pushes Malcolm’s suspenders from his shoulders. He unbuttons the front of Malcolm's pants; Malcolm does not stop him.

It is as it should be, the stoic American and he. No voices needed in this one-time weakness. Every word within these walls is touched by madness.

Ethan licks his fingers. He knows what to do, an assured hand around Malcolm’s cock. His grip is tight. A welcome squeeze of pressure to coerce him to greater girth. Malcolm is slower to it than Ethan, but the hand around him is diligent.

He fists Ethan towards him, loses Ethan’s mouth to a stuttered curse. Ethan's narrowed eyes stay on Malcolm as he begins to work in earnest. The sound is wet between them, and Malcolm braces a hand on the back of the sofa. His youth returns to him, hardness that fills Ethan’s palm.

Ethan holds his eyes; a challenge, perhaps. It is a wager Malcolm is willing to take.

Each touch makes tension snake through them. Ethan blows out a breath. The heat in Ethan’s eyes blossoms; dark and _real_.

The fire is hot on Malcolm’s back. His hand tangles in Ethan’s hair. Ethan greets him with a kiss that tastes of persistence.

What demons they both face. What monsters in the dark.

Ethan’s waist jerks, a grit “ _fuck_!” that ends a mess. Ropes of white on skin paled by lack of sun. No summer days in London quite like the west of Ethan’s youth.

His orgasm is worthy of an audience, waist jutting as cum streaks the lines of his stomach. It gleams like pearls, far more fetching than the scars in Malcolm's opinion.

Ethan sighs through open lips, a sheen of sweat on his brow. “Get up,” he rasps.

Malcolm stands, and Ethan hook hands on his thighs. No permission asked, he winds his lips around Malcolm’s shaft and sucks his way down. Ethan’s eyes narrow in concentration. His mouth is warm and welcome, drawn tight around the crown.

Malcolm pushes Ethan's hair back. He wants to watch Ethan’s lips spread and his throat tighten without any obstruction. Lines of effort frame his neck.

His mouth is like a drum, wound tight. A slow nod of Ethan’s head. A daring depth to his pace. Ethan is not new to this. 

Ethan does not need to take all of Malcolm to break him. He’s barely worked to the base when Malcolm grabs his shoulders and releases. The energy sags out of him, but Malcolm is aware that Ethan does not spit.

Ethan gazes up his mouth-damp length, and follows his body to his eyes. Neither says a word.

After a moment, they begin to dress. Malcolm replaces his trousers, re-tucks his shirt, and buttons the chest. Ethan pulls on his pants and shirt. A crease of confusion folds his brow as he shrugs into his suspenders. The second strap draws a wince, cutting into the scars Malcolm now knows are on his chest. Ethan's personal brand of sin.

“Are you yourself, Mister Chandler?” Malcolm asks. Ethan frowns in silent answer.

A howl screams from upstairs. They both turn towards the ceiling.

Ethan is out of the study immediately, Malcolm right behind him. They climb the stairs and burst into the room occupied the demon and its beloved.

Their poor Miss Ives twists futilely in her bonds, spasming like a rag doll in chains. Her back contorts and her eyes protrude, as if able to see the whole world at once.

The beast twists Vanessa's face into a sneer. “You men,” it taunts. “You men, you men.”

* The End *


End file.
